


The Terror of Mister Jack and Missus Jill

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Ambiguous Relationships, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Western Sherlock Crossover Crack!fic - Ambiguous Johnlock. Sprung from Sheriarty feels. // The Holmes brothers run a cattle ranch, and so does John Watson, but Moriarty uses his psychological scheming to profit off all of them..</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terror of Mister Jack and Missus Jill

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you take The Terror Of Tiny Town, and add Sherlock Holmes...
> 
> Inspired by the Jimlock feels I had when listening to Mister Jack and Missus Jill during the movie. The plot matches up almost perfectly. Yes, John & Sherlock are both sharing the two lead romantic roles though this is much more ambiguous.
> 
> If you watch the only all-dwarf cast western musical in history - made from the 30s era cast of The Wizard Of Oz - how do you NOT decide to salute it with Sherlock Holmes? No? Just me then? Okay, right, carrying on..
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, Newfield, & Myton, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

 "Let's go way up on the hill,  
Pretend I'm Jack and you're Jill.  
Instead of tumbling down,  
Into town,  
We'll go round,  
Talking of love."

Out on the range lives many a cowpoke, but none so much an inner thinking man as Sherlock Holmes. A quite lonesome type is he, that sticks to his own self usually, but today has ridden into town. His chaps are a soft worked leather that rest comfortably under his thicker belt. The brightness of his white button up is faded by prairie dust, but the patterned vest over it is new. A black ten gallon hat rests on equally dark locks as a final garnish.

“If you have time for chit chat here, the ranch chores best be done.” Says a cool impassive voice from behind him. Mycroft wears gray digs that always appear crisp no matter how much riding around on the range he gets. A strap around his chin keeps his hat in place.  
  
“Right away, Mycroft.” Sherlock replies in a falsely positive voice that is intended to unseat and irritate his elder brother. After their parents passed away Mycroft has settled in as Sherlock's father figure – something that does not bode well with either man.

* * *

 

“Now, now, Sebastian, it's only a calf!” Calls Jim Moriarty irately as he watches the other man circle the young skittish bovine. The branding iron he holds into the fire is ready for the animal, more than hot enough. From Jim's vantage point by the low burning fire the scene is comical, but they have to get moving before some no good polecat comes along.  
  
Sebastian adjusts the thick white hat blocking the sun out of his swear creased brow before he takes up his rope, whipping the lasso with his wrist. The blond a powerful figure.  
  
“Fetch the critter, don't waltz with him!” Jim snaps as Sebastian and a few others yee-haw their way toward the calf in an attempt to block him off with a wall. Moriarty brushes a spat of dust off the white fringe of his nearly all black outfit – from breeches to belt he is kitted out in the color of night. Only some embroidered detailing and a bleached leather fringe on his chest, both white, are the only non-black additions.

From far off a figure rides in on a white stallion. The dark hat might be anyone, but Jim suspects it is Sherlock. A wry smirk forms on his face, even as he shouts at his men, “Get'r going, boys!”

The calf is abandoned to escape unmarred as the rustlers turn their horses around. Jim throws the branding iron to the ground with a widening of that smirk, before turning to mount his steed. As he rides off a dark chuckle escapes his lips.

* * *

 

Sherlock rides up with due speed, jumping off the still moving animal. The calf is still scampering around, and the men have ridden off before he could make his way over the stretching plains. Left to put out the fire, or risk taking the whole prairie down with him, Sherlock begins to kick dust and dirt into the weak flickering flames.

The metal rod lying there is hard to miss, and Sherlock picks up the branding iron curiously. He knew it was cattle rustlers, but now he will know which ones. A brand is like an artist's signature, a way to know the owner. The brand will tell him who is the low down dirty thief putting he and Mycroft out of business.

The hard cast iron is formed into the shape of a stylized W curling in on itself - the Watson ranch's crest.

* * *

 

Jim Moriarty rides in with his gang, coming up over the ridge to look down on the lengthy ranch of John Watson. His eyes are greedy as they look upon the little compound. “Alright, boys, as we planned.” Jim mutters before kicking his horse in the side and heading down the tiny slope alone.

John exits his ranch, stepping onto the porch with a click of his boots. His britches a tan prairie dog color, and just a touch too tight due to the excellence of his cook. Both his collared shirt and hat are white, a nice cooling color in the baking sunshine.  
  
“Howdy Jim,” Says the genial ranch master, sticking his hands loosely in his belt. His round stomach adds to the jolly, respectable image he presents.  
  
“Hullo John,” Replies the cool villain with a falsified smile. “How's things?”  
  
“Not s'good, I seem to be losing some of my herd.” John sighs, fingers dipping further into his britches.  
  
“Well, John, on m'ride over I found a cow'a yours. Had been shot.” John interrupts with an incredulous sound – a mountain lion would be understandable but not a gunshot. Jim nods before continuing, “Some calf wanderin' near her body, with the brand of the Holmes brothers. Looked fresh t'boot.” One eyebrow rose slightly as his expression turns revealing.

John's eyes harden at the news from his fellow pioneer. “The low down coyote!”

A few years back John and the older brother, Mycroft, had been in a bit of a tussle over a nice filly. She had picked neither of them in the end, but the entire experience still left an unpleasant taste for the other in both their mouths. Their mutual dislike is common knowledge.

“Thought we reached a standstill years a'go..” John mutters unhappily.

Jim nods in pretend empathy, raising his hand up to the wide brim of his cowboy hat. He swipes it back and forth, giving the signal. In response his men from up on the hill fire. The shots do not hit anyone, and they are not intended to, but John does not know that and jumps as if a snake has just slithered into his boot.  
  
“Somebody ain't friendly to ya!” Jim cries out with feigned fear. Internally he is finding it so amusing to pretend to be the one shot at when really he is giving the orders, but shows no expression of such.  
  
John grunts as his eyes catch the retreating figures on horseback, too far off to be discernible, but he already knows who he is going to see – the Holmes brothers.

* * *

 

Jim rides into town next, kicking up the dusty road under his horse's hooves. He slides his leg over the creature's back, giving the animal a pat to the neck before tying him up. Before he can leave the hitching post, out comes the silver haired cowboy who thinks that gold star pinned to his chest makes him the Sheriff, an illusion Jim lets him pursue.  
  
“Hey-up Sheriff Lestrade.” Jim tips his hat politely.  
  
“What's on your mind, Mister Moriarty?” Replies the Sheriff uncertainly, having never been able to prove any darkness lies in the other man, but his gut tells him not to trust him. Whenever Jim appears, it worries Lestrade.  
  
“Keep your nose outta the feuding between the Holmeses and J. Watson.” The warning is not hidden by that slight friendly tone. Jim's eyes cannot conceal his nefarious intentions.

“It's my duty to bring justice t' these parts.” Lestrade replies stiffly, turning around and heading back inside out of the dust.  
  
“If yer out fightin' for justice, what's to keep someone from bringing some justice to your purty wife?” Jim mutters – he is the reason why Lestrade's lovely bride was free from a lengthy prison sentence. Lestrade never knew how Jim did it, he could not understand Jim, but he never trusted him for it and ever since Jim has been making him pay for it.  
  
“If you don't like my game, just say so.” Jim says just to hear the silence of Lestrade's non-answer. He smirks, turning on his heel to leave the frowning lawman. He can hear the trills of Miss Molly, the saloon's songstress, and he heads in there to sit a spell.

* * *

  
It has been a couple years since John has set his sights on the more elusive Holmes brother, Sherlock - at some barn dance it was, John thinks so at least. Younger but smarter, or so they say. Before he sees him, though, he hears the soft silken voice dipping and crescendoing in a beautiful aria..

The sweet prairie ballad in that low voice sounds sorrowful, almost lonely yet he never uses that word but expressing  himself with imagery of gray rolling clouds and rain on the open plains.  
  
“I never knew you could sing so pretty..” John remarks, riding his horse closer once the  smattering of song ends...

There has never been a fight that John Watson felt himself ill-prepared for. He takes to battles head on when necessary. In this wild world with only minimal law, such is often necessary too. John is a peaceful man by nature who does not want to cause any trouble, but he will never run if trouble presents itself to him.

“Liar.” Remarks the sharp eyed ebony haired lad, leaning against the tree he had propped himself up in among a split in the trunk. He denies the compliment, not the knowledge, but John is smart enough to know that.  
  
John's lips part in surprise at the doubtful response to a simple compliment. Anger toward Sherlock, given their feuding families, would be normal – but annoyance surprises John.  
  
“Best I ever hear..” John shrugs with a take it or leave it attitude. His fingers toy with the reigns, looking upon the lanky figure catching some shade.

“There's a.. serious matter, I wanna talk with your brother about.” John informs the other.

“I'm not my brother.” The response is clipped, as if irritated that John is staying and directing his inquiries in the wrong direction.

“I'm bein' rustled poor, and get no help from the law.” John mutters obstinately.  
  
“Mycroft's able to play dirty, but he plays it by the book.” Sherlock replies thickly, giving the other man a curious stare at the cryptic language.

As John is considering that from his lofty vantage point another figure rides in from the east. The mare turns in a circle around the tree, its rider not dismounting. There in his well tailored britches is Mycroft Holmes himself.

“Sherlock, gallivanting with our enemy?” He tuts his brother disapprovingly.  
  
Instantly the youth with angelic cheekbones narrows his eyes. “I don't take that kind of talk about my friend.”  
  
John's brown eyes widen in surprise at that and he waves a hand dismissively to Sherlock. “Not on my account..”

“If there is any quarrel, it's of his making.” Sherlock stiffly says while pushing himself out of the tree. Unlike his brother he does not brush off every crease but rests there naturally, the slight dishevelment adding to his wild curls.

The two bulls with equal strength butt verbal horns. “If you favor my enemies you're not my brother.” Mycroft's anger is short now, the fuse already blown earlier in the day.  
  
They eye each other roughly in a visual skirmish. Finally Sherlock is the one to break it. “He says he needs to talk, so I'll leave you two be.” Sherlock's voice is crisp and condescending at once.

John nods to Mycroft and dismounts his ride to show good faith. Though looking on dubiously, Mycroft does not disagree nor does he agree.  
  
“C'mon, I dare ya to talk to me for five minutes.” John gives him a goading look in his eyes and an amicable smile.

Mycroft says nothing which is enough to tell Sherlock he will hear John out.

“You need common sense instead of gun smoke.” Sherlock murmurs, turning away and finding his own filly, untying her and throwing his leg over her. He hefts himself into the saddle and leaves before their conversation can begin..  
  
“I think your outfit has been rustling my cattle and it's got to stop.” John begins with as little stiffness as possible in the accusation. There is no reason for this to make them reach for their shooting irons. As Sherlock said, with some common sense, they can talk it out as men.  
  
“I'm losing cattle myself!” Snipes Mycroft with a pout. “And I know you've taken them.”  
  
“That can't be true. Are you not rustling from us?” John inquires with a slow epiphany.

“You besmirch my honor.” Mycroft's tone has turned scathing and he turns away from John, his boot sliding into the stirrup.  
  
“Hold on, you said five minutes.” John half shouts at him with a touch of frustration.  
  
Feeling that he must stick to his word Mycroft's boot slips off the metal and returns to the ground. He turns with dark eyes to John.

“We're both losing stock, Holmes. I blame you, and you blame me. That don't make sense. Someone else is rustlin' the both of us..” At the slightly curious look in Mycroft's eyes John continues, “Don' you think that's more likely?”  
  
Before Mycroft can reply a shot rings out and his body crumples to the ground.

* * *

 

Jim has not appreciated seeing John and Sherlock together. While riding along he caught sight of the two figures and, given his stake in the matter of their animosity, veered off into the brush to observe. The two lads seem far too chummy for his taste..

“Come now, gotta buy up your lands, boys.” Mutters Jim as he watches, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.  
  
His teeth grind together at the sight of Mycroft riding in. Jim watches as Sherlock leaves, and narrows his eyes as his older sibling begins talking it out with John. Jim Moriarty cannot have them turning toward friendship when his game is to play the two against each other until they destroy one another.  
  
If this is how it has to be then he will take care of things. Without a second thought he lifts his six shooter, aims at Mycroft's chest, and fires. As soon as the shot hits he kicks into his horse's sides and is sent galloping off toward the Holmes ranch.

Jim catches up to Sherlock just before the wandering cowpoke comes into sight of his ranch. “Holmes!” He calls, riding up to the taller man. His stallion swerves in front of Sherlock's. “Watson just killed your brother in the south pass!”

Sherlock's eyes widen and he turns his head away. The thin lipped figure shakes his head and spurs his horse ahead. Jim follows in his wake.

When they reach the ranch Sherlock dismounts slowly, feeling a dragging weight on his body. Something welling up inside him that his expression staved off. Jim's hand against his shoulder feels like the only bit of comfort he knows. With a small gesture he beckons Jim inside, the two sitting on a couch where Jim relays the details of Mycroft's final moments – as he wants them presented, with John making the shot.

* * *

 

“Sherlock!” John begins in a rush, heading onto the porch of the Holmes ranch. He thinks that he must be the one to tell the younger Holmes that his brother is dead. The news weighs him down.

“Stay where you are!” Calls Holmes, throwing open the front door and shoving the pistol forward. He bites his lower lip, glaring with the first heat in his eyes since getting the news of Mycroft. “You shot my brother!”

“Now hold on, I didn't..” John quickly stumbles over his words while holding up two hands in a peaceful surrendering gesture.  
  
“Jim Moriarty came 'round with the news..” Sherlock lifts up a handkerchief, mopping at his sweaty face. His eyes seem a bit puffy but no tears fall.  
  
“You can't believe that two-faced rattlesnake.” John nearly growls the words, but as the man is in mourning he softens a little.

“I don't know what to believe, and it fits the evidence..” Sherlock murmurs with a great melancholy heart. He looks upon John, finally allowing that downtrodden stare to break free. Sherlock knows how lonely the ranch will be without his quirky overbearing sibling there.

“Just listen to me..” John murmurs, keeping his hands up. He proceeds to tell Sherlock that they began to talk, realized that they were both being rustled by the same person – not each other – and then Mycroft was shot. “I swear to you, I didn't. I wouldn't.”

Still, something is plain to Sherlock – if two men tell different stories, one does not need much intelligence to see that someone is a liar. He swallows thickly, remembering the arm around his shoulder while grieving, “If the only ones out there on the plains where it happened was you and my brother's killed, and Jim Moriarty rode right on in to tell me, then even someone without horse sense can see HE is the murderer.”

* * *

 

After telling Sherlock he would do what he could Jim had left him.. The tale had been successfully presented to Sherlock's mind the way Jim wanted. Now all he needs is the sheriff to do his bidding..

“I want you to arrest John Watson for the murder of Mycroft Holmes.” Announces Jim to the doubtful eyed figure standing before him.

“You know I can't.” Lestrade shakes his head. In his mind there is no proof to tie one to the other – and he knows John to be an honest hard-working man. Murder is not the stuff of John's making.  
  
At Jim's silent hard stare the sheriff continues, “I won't let an innocent man hang.” For once he stands firm.

So be it, Jim can get things done in his own way. He ignores the useless man and turns into the saloon, where half the town wiles its day away.  
  
“Drinks on me!” Shouts Jim once inside, earning a chorus of cheers and whoops.

“All up to the bar, boys.” Jim waves a hand, sending the lot of them scurrying towards it. He smirks slightly, walking around to one end so he can look down the length of the bar at his fellow townsfolk.

Once the majority of the liquor has been passed out by the feverishly working barman Jim begins to speak, “Fellas, I'm tired'a livin' in fear.” Murmurs of agreement. “Tired of lyin' awake at night wonderin' if my cattle are safe.. And now, with Mycroft Holmes up and killed -” Gasps escape many as this news has not yet broken. “- Well, I plumb get scared for myself.”

“They ought to string up that varmint what got Mycroft!” Shouts one person.  
  
“He was a stand up fella.” Bemoans another.  
  
“I'm sick'a the sheriff! He ain't never done nothing for nobody.” Louder grumblings accompany Jim's speech that now turns to exasperation.

“Let's take the law into our own hands!”

The partially drunken crowd reels, and most loudly shout agreement. It is more than enough to form a small mob that stomps out of the saloon, with Jim leading them.  


John and Sherlock are already riding into town, the two having decided to band together to track down Jim. Though John is surprised to find them suddenly surrounded, Sherlock does not seem so shocked by it.

Sherlock does, however, start to fuss viciously when the crowd turns on John, who fights the arms that pull him off his mare and get a hold of him.

“Hold on!” Cries a voice from afar. Standing there is the Sheriff. “Watson is innocent. I can't hold my tongue it was Jim M-” Begins the silver flecked figure before the man he accuses lifts a weapon and shoots him dead.

With Lestrade killed in front of the town, Jim has shown his hand. The crowd that has been following him in revelry now screams and scatters away from him. John is let go in the commotion.

“Playing a lone hand now..” Mutters Jim, dark gaze flying as does the mouth of his gun, hand jerking it from person to person to leave no side unguarded. Slowly, weapon trained on the lot of them, he backs up to his ride and mounts it. A touch ungainly, given that it is one handed to keep the pistol trained on the crowd, but he still manages to escape.

Sherlock's thin lips set grimly as he watches before he spurs his feet into his own ride and takes off in hot pursuit.  
  
“Sherlock, wait!” Cries John who had already been moving toward the Sheriff. The bloodied man's shirt tells a sad tale, but still conscious he grabs hold of John weakly. “Jim's.. in Big Rock.. Canyon.. I knew he.. I knew..” The man weakly convulses from the blood within his lungs, eyes stilling as he passes on.

* * *

 

Sherlock rides into Big Rock Canyon, hot on Moriarty's trail. The madman heads into a small barely standing building tucked among the rock. Jim will grab what he can and skedaddle. Or that was the plan, but Sherlock bursts into the cabin.

With a gun trained on him, Jim only smirks, his hands thrown up in the air, “Go ahead.”

For a moment Sherlock almost does. This is the man that killed his brother, his only living relative. The only being that accepted his eccentricities. His finger presses to the trigger but does not pull. “No, we'll be equals.” Sherlock throws the pistol down.

The two men rush at each other, adrenalin already beyond their spiking points. Sherlock lands a punch to Jim's jaw as the man tackles him around the waist, driving them to tumble on the floor. In the brief topsy-turvy Jim lands a crashing blow to Sherlock's gut.

They fight in jabs and thrust, with Sherlock getting pushed back. He falls on the weak straw bed and Jim comes tumbling after. The slender man lands on his hips, leaning back and driving his fist down. They thrash together and the bed tips over, sending both men sprawling. Jim jumps up and runs to a corner with a wooden railway transport box, grabbing a stick of dynamite from within and brandishing it at Sherlock. 

Moriarty backs up steadily, holding it near the open fireplace. “If I go, Holmes, you go.” He sneers.  
  
“Fine.” Sherlock snaps at him. He means it, and Jim can see that in those bright, saddened eyes.

Jim dips his hand just low enough that the end of the wick fuse catches alight. The sparked stick of dynamite is thrown onto the table while Jim rushes at Sherlock, tackling him to keep him there.

“Such a bang,” Growls Jim mockingly, throwing his fist over Sherlock's jaw, already ruby-red from bruising. Their fight continues as the dynamite fuse slowly burns.

“Sherlock!” Calls John imploringly from outside.

It is as if someone has recharged Sherlock's spirits, all in the blink of an eye. Even his aches do not seem so bad all of a sudden. With renewed vigor his knuckles tighten and Sherlock punches Moriarty clear off his body.

A glance at the dynamite reveals how little time he has. Sherlock jumps to his feet and scrambles toward the door, slamming it behind him. He does not stop while running toward John - who, unaware of the approaching explosion, is off his horse and running right for the cabin.  
  
Sherlock tackles John with unexpected force, wrenching the man around as the momentum nearly sends both spinning. He reaches out and calls for John to take his hand, pulling him without another word as they head away from the cabin.

Inside Moriarty grabs Sherlock's discarded pistol as the anger wells up inside him. He rushes to the window and slams his fist through the glass, pointing his gun through it and lining it up with Sherlock's retreating form.

Just as he is about to pull the trigger the dynamite detonates, blowing the entire place sky high.

The force of the explosion knocks John and Sherlock face down on the ground. The dirt mouthful is unpleasant but it is a far better fate than the one of Moriarty. Their fingers tighten around each other, the start of a new peace and friendship.

* * *

 

"Bluebirds are singing on high,  
While we're together.  
Dark clouds are all rolling by,  
They're in for sunny weather.

And you'll be my Mister Jack,  
And I'll be your Missus Jill.  
The crowd will congregate,  
Celebrate,  
The wedding of Jack and Jill."

**Author's Note:**

> Never doing another crack!fiction after this, nor another western..
> 
> [This movie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCbTfq0BZQE) is genius though (Yes, from those two, I imagined Sherlock & John - it was past midnight, these things happen).


End file.
